Negotiating the Aftermath
by Katria Bloom
Summary: This story takes place in the same universe of my story "What Was Left After", but deals specifically with the sexual side of John and Sherlock's relationship.
1. The Proposition

John's only appointment for the day had just called in to cancel, and he didn't hesitate to shed his lab coat and roll up his sleeves. Even his basement office in 221-C was hot. He eyed the door to Sherlock's lab hesitantly. It had been quiet, almost too quiet, for a couple of hours, and John was trying not to get too concerned. John checked his watch, and decided it was time for a walk in the cool breeze in Regent's Park. Preferably with an ice lolly. Jack was sleeping over at his friend Rhys' house, and Sherlock's phone had been silent all day.

Deciding to make a move, John crossed to Sherlock's lab and knocked. The tinkling sound of breaking glass came from within, followed by Sherlock cursing under his breath. "Yes, what?" Sherlock finally snapped.

"It's bloody hot in here, I'm going to the park," John said, ignoring Sherlock's tone.

"Fine," Sherlock muttered. John waited at the door, grinning as he heard Sherlock's approaching footsteps. The door flew open and Sherlock emerged, his shirt open an extra button and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. "It's miserable, I can scarcely concentrate on my experiments. I'm coming along, I believe I could use the fresh air."

John felt a familiar and unwanted twist in his stomach at the flush on Sherlock's cheeks, a couple of his curls damp and flattened against his temples. Sweat had beaded on Sherlock's upper lip, and he pulled out a handkerchief to dab it away. John felt his ears burn and he looked away. John crossed over to the small water cooler in the corner and filled a little paper cup, draining it in one go.

Sherlock folded his handkerchief and watched John, frowning. "I thought we were going? Are you alright?"

John nodded, composing himself. "Right. This heat , it's…getting to me, I suppose."

Sherlock levelled him with an unreadable expression for a moment before something in his gaze shifted. With a smirk, Sherlock pulled open the door and led the way outside. John was scared to consider what Sherlock was smirking about, but he followed him all the same.

* * *

"I have a proposition."

John, who was focusing on his lemon ice lolly and decidedly not looking at Sherlock as he ate his ice cream, made a noncommittal noise. "You are filled with propositions. What is it this time?"

Sherlock finished off his small cone, watching John carefully. "I don't think I'll tell you. You'll just say no."

"Then why bring it up at all?" John asked, tossing his stick in a bin along the path back to Baker Street.

Sherlock didn't respond right away. He reached over and took John's hand in his. A calculated manoeuvre. "I just want to offer you a bit of forewarning. I want to try something, and I want you to allow me to try. If you are uncomfortable, or I am uncomfortable, we will stop. But I want to try a series of experiments for which I would like for you to maintain an open mind. I will explain further when we return home."

John tried to work out what exactly Sherlock was talking about, but the careful neutrality of his facial expression gave no clues. "That sounds ominous," he finally replied, not sure what else to say.

Sherlock pushed his hair back off his forehead. "Nothing of the sort, I can assure you."

John didn't feel assured.

* * *

When they arrived home, John threw open all of the windows in the flat, trying to coax in a breeze. Sherlock disappeared upstairs, and John wasn't exactly sure what that meant. Instead of thinking too much about it, John got himself a cold beer and opened his laptop, checking his blog for comments. There were just a few drunken comments from Harry inquiring about Jack, but nothing else.

"John, I need your assistance," Sherlock called down the stairs, and John sighed as he shut down his computer. He trudged up the stairs, beer in hand, and he stopped in the doorway. Sherlock has drawn the curtains and he was standing at the foot of the bed, his feet uncharacteristically bare. "Listen to me," Sherlock toned, his voice low.

"What are you doing?" John asked, surprised by how weak his voice sounded. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"

"I want you to undress me," Sherlock said, the definition of calm. "I want you to touch me, and I don't want you to feel ashamed by your reactions to me."

John felt sick and hot, and he shook his head. "We can't do that, Sherlock. We can't open that…we can't open that door, because I'm afraid I can't close it back. We've talked about this."

Sherlock looked like he wanted to approach him, but was restraining himself. He took a slow breath and slipped his hands in his pockets. "I'm thought about this, John. Extensively. I've done little else this week. I would do anything for you, and I want you to be happy, and this is something that I can do for you. I'm not opposed to sex. I have suffered no past trauma. I'm just not interested. And you are. And I want very much to find a way to have a sexual relationship with you that doesn't require my own arousal. So I've come up with a few ideas, a series of experiments I would like to perform. And you are the only person in my life that I have ever trusted enough to want to…to try with."

John's throat went dry, and he took a long drink of his beer before putting his bottle down. "You're a virgin."

"I am," Sherlock replied without a trace of embarrassment. "Everyone assumes that because I was an abuser of recreational drugs that I was more careless in other aspects of my body. But I can assure you, I was always very careful and only ever used drugs in very controlled environments. I always retained perfect control of my body, and I trust you to allow me to retain that control."

"Yeah, of course," John said, unable to stop himself from approaching Sherlock, lifting a hand to slip this fingers though Sherlock's sweat-damp curls. Sherlock closed his eyes, smiling fondly at the touch. "Sherlock, I will feel like I am taking advantage of you. It's no fun for me if you don't…want it."

Sherlock leaned in to John's hand, and when he spoke, his voice was dangerously close to a purr. "I want to have your attention. All of it. I want you to look at me, never stop looking at me, and I want you to touch me. Hold me. I don't want you to look at anyone else, touch anyone else, and I want you to be happy. So I am willing to do something for you, make concessions for you, so that you can fulfil my needs and I can fulfil yours."

John slid his hand down to Sherlock's neck, feeling his pulse against his fingertips. John could feel the beginnings of arousal stirring in his groin, and he could smell Sherlock's warm skin. "I don't know what you want me to say," he finally said, sliding his thumb over Sherlock's earlobe.

"I don't want you to say anything," Sherlock said, lowering his mouth to John's. He slid his tongue over John's lips before sucking John's bottom lip between his own. He kissed down John's chin, down his neck, before burying his nose in the hollow of John's collarbone. "I want you to undress me first, then we may begin."

John's fingers tightened around Sherlock's hip.


	2. Step One

John's fingers were shaking as he went for the first button of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock's breathing was even, tickling John's neck, as he methodically unrolled his shirt sleeves and watched John. "My fingers won't work," John said with an uneasy laugh, laying his hands flat against Sherlock's chest to force them to stop shaking. His heart was racing, and he hated how on edge he felt. Sherlock was perfectly calm, which was oddly reassuring. John took a few steadying breaths, comforted by the steady heartbeat under his palms.

"There is no rush," Sherlock said. He wasn't laughing at John, he wasn't judging John. He was allowing John time to adjust, which he was terribly grateful for. "Whatever you need to do, John."

John swallowed around a lump in his throat and nodded, letting his hands fall to his sides. "I think I need to sit down. This is…" he stopped, slumping down onto the bed, pressing the heel of his hand against his semi-erection. "I don't know what this is."

"Overwhelming, I would imagine," Sherlock said, his brow furrowing in concern. He settled down next to John on the bed, lying down on top of the duvet. He folded his hands behind his head with a stretch, and John watched him unabashedly. He had permission, and Sherlock favoured him with a small smile.

The white fabric underneath Sherlock's arms was transparent with sweat, and an overwhelming wave of fondness swept over John. It was easy to forget that Sherlock was, in fact, human. John settled a hand over Sherlock's ribcage, watching it expand and contract with Sherlock's breath. "I love you," John said, when he couldn't restrain himself any longer.

"I know," Sherlock said, smirking as he closed his eyes. Even still, he turned his face towards John.

John licked his lips, watching Sherlock for a moment, before he carefully settled down next to Sherlock, resting his head in the crook of Sherlock's arm. The fabric was damp against his lips, slightly salty against his tongue. Sherlock must wear an unscented deodorant, because all John could smell was warm skin and something elementally Sherlock. It was a smell that spoke to a part of his brain that triggered _home _and _danger_ and _protect_. It was one of his favourite smells.

"I don't think I can do this," he breathed into Sherlock's side, even as his hand came to rest on his stomach.

Sherlock buried his nose in John's hair and let out a hum of acknowledgement. "I want you to listen to me. Very carefully. Can you do that for me?"

John nodded, and Sherlock turned onto his side to face John, slipping one of his legs between John's. John stiffened for a moment but he forced himself to relax again, closing his eyes.

"Imagine I am touching you," Sherlock said softly, sliding his fingertips down his side lightly. "All over your body. Your bare skin pressed against mine. My hands outlining every one of your muscles. Tendons. Bones. All of the connection points. Cataloguing all of the changes in skin texture, hair distribution. Taking note of all of your scars, freckles, wrinkles, callouses…"

John's breathing became irregular, and he could feel his erection heavy against his own thigh. "You're teasing me," John sighed, wanting very much to press himself against Sherlock's leg. He desperately wanted pressure, friction, but he refused to use Sherlock that way. Even if he was making it very difficult to resist.

"I'm warming you up to the idea," Sherlock said, his lips brushing against John's temple. The contact was enough to give John chills. "I have a scientific curiosity concerning your body, John. I want diagrams made. Samples. You are far from perfect—you're too short, but the adaptions you've made throughout the course of your life are nothing short of miraculous. You are the perfect imperfect specimen, and I want to know everything there is to know about you. The way each part of your body tastes, the way you feel with your body perfectly aligned with mine. I want to know what it's like for you to be laying on top of me completely, pressing the breath out of me. Barely able to breathe, and only able to breathe in your exhalations. I want everything, John. Everything you have to offer."

John's erection twitched, and he opened his mouth against Sherlock shoulder, letting out a shaking breath. "Not everything. You don't want everything."

"I want you to know that I am interested in you, your body," Sherlock said, his fingers tightening against John's side. "And although my interest may not be sexual, it is intense nonetheless. You are aesthetically pleasing. I like it when you touch me and the way you react to my returning the favour. You feel guilty for thinking of me in a sexual manner, but that is how most everyone thinks. You are not a deviant for doing so, and you shouldn't feel ashamed. I don't mind you thinking of me that way. I like the look on your face when you do. Most people blush from the centre of their face, but your ears are always the first to go red."

John wanted. Desperately he wanted. He let out a strangled moan and opened his eyes. "Take your shirt off," he said, his words more forceful than his tone. Sherlock looked down at him, his lips quirked in a slight smile.

"That's your job."

This time John's hands were steady, and he made quick work of the buttons. Sherlock lifted his hips to make it easier for John to untuck the shirt, and it was quickly tossed to the floor. Sherlock's skin was milky pale, stained pink from the heat and attention, John supposed. He had a few old scars, gone pearlescent and white through time, and for a moment Sherlock looked like he wasn't sure what to do with his hands, so he settled on refolding them behind his head. His chest was sparsely haired, as was his stomach, and despite the hair on his head the rest of his body hair was light brown and fine, bordering on ginger. Some part of his brain knew this already: he had seen Sherlock in varying states of undress before, but it was only now that he allowed himself to ponder it.

Sherlock's small, flat nipples were coral pink. The skin in the crook of his elbow was mottled with pinprick scars and destroyed veins. Everything about him was perfect, and John's body ached. He suddenly understood what Sherlock meant when he said John was a perfect specimen of imperfection.

"Can I touch you?" John asked, his hand hovering over Sherlock's chest.

"You touch me all the time," Sherlock said even as he folded one of his hands around John's right hand, steering it to rest over his collarbone. Their hands slid together along that bony ridge, over Sherlock's sternum, along the uneven landscape of his ribcage. John's finger caught on Sherlock's belly button before their hands came to rest on Sherlock's abdomen. They were breathing in tandem now, and John felt like his entire body was on fire. "What does this feel like, for you?" Sherlock asked, curiosity written all over his face.

"It feels like…nothing I've ever felt before," John answered, unable to hide the truth. "My skin is tingling and I feel dizzy and…overwhelmed. I don't think I've ever been this turned on in my whole life, which is saying something since I've not even been touched."

Sherlock pressed another kiss to John's temple, and John felt a pull in his shoulder from his position. With a reluctant sigh he pulled away from Sherlock slightly, lying instead flat on his back. "Sorry, getting a bit stiff." With Sherlock's dark chuckle John added, "You know what I mean."

"I do," Sherlock said, watching John's profile carefully. After a moment he said, "Are you ready for the next step?"

"There's more?" John said, suppressing a full-body shutter.

"There is," Sherlock said, squeezing John's hand. "I want you to unfasten your trousers."

John's throat went dry.


	3. Step Two

John's brain went offline.

Sherlock had instructed him to unfasten his trousers. And John's hands, as if they had a mind of their own, moved to follow instruction. His hands were steady now, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his erection once the button and zipper were open.

"Take yourself in hand," Sherlock said against his ear.

John licked his lips as he took a deep breath though his nose. "No," he finally said, turning his face away from Sherlock. "I'm not going to… I'm not masturbating in front of you. That's disgusting."

"It's not," Sherlock replied, his breath hot against John's shoulder. "I have wanted to watch your face when you do this for ages. Just listening to you from the living room isn't enough. You try entirely too hard to stay silent."

"John felt dizzy. "You…you can't know when I…"

"You have a tell-tale routine. You prefer to take your time, but usually don't because you're afraid that Jack will need you. So you tend to favour masturbating in the shower, and your showers tend to last upwards of 15 minutes rather than your usual 9. When the mood strikes and Jack is away, you wait until you think I'm downstairs and take your time."

John turned his head so he could look at Sherlock again, who was smirking a bit. "I should have known you would be down here spying."

"Not spying," Sherlock chuckled. "Listening. Now hold out your hand."

John held out his left hand and watched as Sherlock pulled a small bottle of lubricant out of his pocket. He poured a measured amount into the hollow of John's hand before tossing it aside. Sherlock carefully dipped his fingers in the oily liquid, smoothing it over the surface of John's hand until it was evenly coated.

"Now take yourself in hand," Sherlock repeated, studying John's face.

John reached down, pulling his hard flesh through the opening of his boxers, the warm, slick grip of his hand all-too tempting. He couldn't resist a couple of quick, tight strokes over the head of his erection but he forced himself to stop, squeezing his eyes closed as he let his knees fall open as wide as the confines of his jeans would allow.

"Good?" Sherlock asked, lifting their joined hands, which were resting on his own stomach, to his lips, pressing a kiss to John's knuckles. At John's groan Sherlock chuckled. "Open your eyes, John. I want to see. Don't look away from me. Don't you dare look away."

"This feels wrong," John said as he opened his eyes, his face colouring deep red. Biting his now-swollen lip he began stroking himself again in earnest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, resting their joined hands over his own steady heart. "It's only wrong if either of us don't want it. Do you want to stop?"

John's pupils are blown wide, and he rested his forehead against Sherlock's. "God no. Definitely not."

Sherlock's eyes crinkled in amusement, and he shifted so he could bring his right hand up to slide along John's hairline. He stroked the small patch of grey hair above his ear for a moment before he narrowed his eyes a bit. "Your face is too close to mine, I can't see properly. No…don't close your eyes."

John huffed a laugh, pulling his head back a bit, forcing his eyes back open. His hips hitched against his will and he had to fight to keep his eyes from falling shut again. The look on Sherlock's face was mesmerizing, his eyes bright with unrestrained fascination. John licked his lips, which were dry from his panting breaths, and Sherlock's eyes followed the movement. "Will you kiss me?" John asked, his hand wrapping tightly around the base of his erection to curb his orgasm.

Sherlock took a deep breath as he slid his thumb over John's lower lip slowly, dipping in his mouth to slide over his teeth. "What does it feel like?" Sherlock asked, dropping his hand to curl around John's neck.

John sucked on his finger for a moment, his tongue catching on Sherlock's thumb nail before he shifted so that the damp skin rested against his cheek. "It feels like you're touching me. It feels like you. Like what I've always wanted."

"I know," Sherlock whispered, his lips brushing against John's temple. "I am touching you, John. It's me. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere. Not ever again. Now what else do you feel?"

"You…you can't deduce it?" John said, his steady rhythm becoming faster as his hips rose and fell to meet his hand.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the corner of John's mouth, chaste and barely there. "My admittedly limited experience in masturbation has been more about manipulating the chemicals that are released in the brain afterwards. When I was young I used it to help me sleep, but I soon grew frustrated when it stopped working. I had no other use for it. So to answer your question, this is one of the very few areas where I have inadequate knowledge be able to deduce what you're feeling."

An uncontrolled whimper escaped John's throat and his eyes slid closed for a moment before he opened them to avoid having to be told again. "How…you feel when you get a clue, when you uncover something that completely unravels a case and you know that you've solved it. That it's in the bag and everyone knows that it's you. That you were the only one clever enough to figure it all out? When you look at me and your eyes are bright and you smile, and I smile, and your stomach jumps and you skin tingles? Don't deny it, you've told me you feel that."

Sherlock huffed with a little frown. "Of course, I don't deny it. It's the best feeling in the world."

John nodded, his eyes falling from Sherlock's eyes to his mouth. "Right now, with you looking at me, I feel better than I've ever felt. This is the best feeling in the world, and I've not even come yet."

Sherlock surged forward to kiss John, this time fully on the mouth. John's tongue is against his and Sherlock took a deep breath against John's cheek. He kisses John through his orgasm, John's entire body shakes violently as he sucks on Sherlock's lips, his hand wrapped tightly around Sherlock's. They are joined together by hands and mouth, and John's toes are pressing into the arch of Sherlock's foot.

They laid in silence, Sherlock listening to John's heartbeat slow, before Sherlock cleared his throat. "Good?"

John, who had given up trying to keep his eyes open, smiled languidly. In lieu of answering, he laughed. Without hesitation, Sherlock joined him.


	4. Step Three

John was wiping the tears from his eyes as his laughter died down. He could feel his face burning still as he accepted a couple of tissues that Sherlock presented to him, deftly cleaned himself, and tucked himself back in his trousers. Sherlock was watching him carefully, still holding on tightly to John's right hand. His gaze felt heavy on John's skin and it was beginning to make John uncomfortable.

"Perhaps you should have a cool shower, that can't have helped in this heat," Sherlock said, wiping a bead of sweat away from John's hairline. "You deal with heat so well. I think the desert has soaked into your skin."

"Stop talking," John said, pushing himself up into a seated position. "I'm…I'm going to shower. Get dressed. Please."

Sherlock didn't move, raising his eyebrows as John pulled his hand free to climb over him to get out of bed. "It's too hot for clothes."

John tugged open a few drawers gathering up a fresh change of clothes, his shoulders tense. "Get dressed and go…go downstairs. Just…leave me alone for a bit. Let me think."

Sherlock sigh was soft, but he climbed out of bed. He gathered up his dressing down and pyjama bottoms, taking it with him as he went downstairs as silently as possible.

John waited until he heard the front door slam before he went to the bathroom, turning on the shower, fully on cold. He flinched away from the cold, pounding water but forced himself to stay beneath the spray. He washed himself quickly but thoroughly, scrubbing his skin to the point of irritation.

He finally gave up, admitting he probably wasn't going to get any cleaner, and turned off the water. He dried himself quickly, not able to look at himself in the mirror as he dressed.

After he felt like he had stalled in the loo as long as he feasibly could he went downstairs. He knew that Sherlock was down in his lab, but he wasn't quite ready to talk to him. Instead he cleaned Jack's room, rolling his eyes at the hats that Jack had perched on top of the jars that held Wiggle the Pig and Pushmi-Pullyu the conjoined twin pigs that Sherlock had given him for his birthday. John could hear Sherlock banging around in the lab underneath his feet and with a sigh John resigned himself to having to make the first move.

He descended the stairs like he was going to his own execution. By the time John made it to the door of 221-C the flat had gone completely quiet, and John, frustrated, pushed the door open. Sherlock was in his lab, the door open, and he was sitting at his gouged experiment table nearly nose to nose with Puppy the cat.

"He followed me down here, refused to let me shut the door. This cat is incredibly annoying," Sherlock said, his voice flat.

"That's probably why Mrs. Hudson tossed him out, she's gotten pretty protective of him as of late," John said, leaning against the door frame of the lab. "You could have tossed him out, you know. I think you're fond of him, really."

"Lies," Sherlock said, even as he raised his hand to stroke the cat's head.

John sighed, watching Sherlock for a long moment. Sherlock seemed to be uncomfortable with the scrutiny and he sat up, slamming his hands down on the table. Puppy grumbled his displeasure and hopped down off the table. "Stop," Sherlock snapped, looking up at John.

John's face crumpled, covering his face with his hand. "Stop what, Sherlock?"

"Thinking. It's annoying."

John's laugh was dangerously close to a sob, and leaned more heavily against the door frame. "I'm trying, but I can't seem to…to turn off my brain. I'm sure you understand."

Sherlock stood, taking a careful step toward John, afraid he would leave. "I understand, John. I understand." His movements were slow and tentative.

"Do you?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock. His eyes were shining but his jaw was set defiantly.

Sherlock lowered his head a bit, his eyes still heavy on John's face. "Can I touch you, John?" When John didn't respond Sherlock took another small step forward, like he was sneaking up on a wild animal, afraid it would startle and dart away. "What you're thinking, it's wrong. You're wrong. Nothing has changed, John, but if you don't want to…to continue what we have established today then we don't have to. But nothing has changed. I still see you the same way, I still feel the same way about you. I just…" he stilled finally dropping his eyes to the floor. His hands curled into tights fists. "I would do anything to make you stay, John. I want you to be happy."

"Stop being so fucking self-sacrificing," John said, shaking his head. "You don't have to do give me anything you don't want to!"

"You haven't taken advantage of me. I haven't done anything I didn't want to do. I don't know how many different ways I must say that in order for you to believe me," Sherlock said, shaking his head.

John reached out, curling a hand over Sherlock's shoulder. "Don't do that to me again, Sherlock. Don't put me in that position again." Sherlock started to argue, but John shook him once, hard. "Respect that. Let me make that decision. If I want it to happen again, and I'm not sure if I do or not, let me make that decision. I know you understand, so I won't ask if you if you do."

"I don't regret it. You were never going to do anything, and you were going to leave me. Eventually. For a wife, a proper family." Sherlock said it quickly, in a rush so quiet he could have easily denied having said it at all. But his steady gaze on John's face was proof that although he may not be proud of his admission, he was owning it.

"You're an idiot," John said, pulling Sherlock into his chest for a hug. Sherlock melted into him, wrapped his arms around John's neck and held him tightly. "I love you, but you're an idiot. Now come on, I'll let you choose which take out place we have for dinner."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose but didn't let go of John, instead he pressed his face into John's neck.

John felt Sherlock's tension, tight like a bow string, and he said "I don't regret it, Sherlock. You can calm down, I'm just going to have to…get used to this. It's not your fault, it's mine, yeah? I just have to decide if this is something I feel like I can do."

Sherlock nodded against his neck, his lips against John's jugular as he whispered "I want Thai."

John grinned. "Thai it is."


	5. The Conclusion

Thai ordered and beer in hand, John sat down on the sofa. Sherlock was hovering near his chair, his eyes dark as he picked at the strings of his Stradivarius. John drained his first beer and cleared his throat, trying to draw Sherlock's attention to no avail. John stood, grabbed another beer, and opened the bottle on the edge of the counter.

"Sherlock."

Nothing. John rolled his eyes and flopped back down on the sofa with a dramatic sigh, wincing as Sherlock coaxed a screech from his violin.

John was nearly done with his second beer when his phone rang. It was Rhys' mum, and he answered it quickly "Hello?"

He heard Jack sniffle on the other end of the line. "Daddy?"

John sighed and glanced over to Sherlock, who had stilled. "What is it, love? Are you alright?"

Jack sniffled again, his voice high and wavering. "I want to come home. I'm scared, Rhys lives by the train and it's very loud and it's time for bed and I don't think I will be able to sleep here."

John rubbed his eyes, resting his head on the back of the sofa. "Are you sure, Jack? Haven't you been having fun playing with Rhys?"

Jack was quiet for a moment, and John could hear Rhys' muffled voice in the background. After a moment Jack whispered "He's much more fun at school. He's very loud."

John chuckled, watching Sherlock as he drew closer. "That's not very nice, Jack."

"What are you and Sherlock doing?"

John rolled his eyes. "Nothing interesting. Would you like to talk to Sherlock?"

Sherlock held out his hand to accept the phone, which John passed over to him. "Shall I come and fetch you?" he asked without preamble, and John massaged his temples, offering a weak protest. Sherlock was listening intensely and offered a sharp nod. "Of course. Pass me over to Rhys' mother please."

"Sherlock, he can stick it out," John said, but Sherlock offered a dismissive wave.

"Mrs. Evans, Sherlock Holmes. Jack is anxious and wishes to come home. I should be arriving to pick him up within the hour. Is that acceptable?" He was silent, listening, before he said, "Excellent. Tell Jack I'm on my way."

Sherlock tossed John his phone back to him and put down his violin. John raised his eyebrows. "What, so am I going to stay here and wait on the food while you go get Jack?"

"I suppose," Sherlock replied, pulling on his coat.

John pursed his lips, resting his hands on his knees. "So what, are you going to get Jack so we don't have to talk anymore?"

Sherlock's phone buzzed, and he read the text quickly. "Apparently not. Mycroft is in the vicinity and is going to swing by and pick him up. Text Rhys' mother and inform her of the change of plans. And you were the one who didn't want to talk anymore, John."

John did as he was told before he crossed to the kitchen to throw away his empty beer bottle. "I didn't say I didn't want to talk anymore, I asked you to let me think about this, yeah? Which you are doing, and I appreciate it."

"I wish you'd think faster, this situation is making me anxious," Sherlock said, crossing his arms as he watched John get another beer. "I despise anxiousness. I am sympathetic to Jack's plight."

"We can't shelter him forever," John said, studying Sherlock's tight expression. "Were you an anxious child?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stole a swing of John's beer, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "I don't know how you enjoy alcohol at all."

"In moderation," John said with a wink. Sherlock smirked.

The doorbell buzzed, and John pulled out his wallet. "That's the food. Get out plates and silverware. Get one out for Jack as well, I'm sure he'll want some of our food, whether he's hungry or not. He asked what we were doing, he's afraid he's missing something."

Sherlock's laugh was low and John bounded down the stairs for the food. His stomach growled at the smell and he tipped much more generously than he would under normal circumstances. He climbed back up the stairs and dropped the bags of food on the kitchen island, watching as Sherlock lined up the plates. "I want a small amount of everything," Sherlock said as he started opening all of the containers, smelling each of the dishes in turn, frowning at the last container. "Not that one. Too much basil. I hate basil."

"Everything is hot and cold with you, you either love it or you hate it. Nothing exists in between," John said, dishing out their meals. "All or nothing, aren't you?"

"Always have been," Sherlock said, picking a bit of sticky rice from the plate that John was obviously preparing for himself. "You know this about me. All or nothing. You do understand, don't you?"

John nodded, swallowing thickly. "Yeah, I understand. Now stop eating my food."

"Our food," Sherlock replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small smile. "It's always better when I take it out of your mouth."

"You just prefer taking things rather than having them given to you," John said, shaking his head in amusement.

"More fun that way, obviously," Sherlock said before he leaned over to press a kiss to John's temple. He lingered momentarily, whispering, "See? More fun." He then picked up his plate and crossed to the kitchen table.

"You gorgeous bastard," John sighed just as thundering footsteps began up the stairs. John chuckled, shaking his head as he brought his plate over to the table. "I don't understand how someone so small can make so much noise. You must have taught him that skill."

"Considering how small you are in comparison to the amount of sound you produce, you seem the more likely culprit," Sherlock said as he spooned a bit of green curry over his rice.

John shook his head, leaning back in his chair as their door swung open.

"Uncle Crofty said that Sherlock never spent the night at a friend's house, and that maybe next time I should invite Rhys over here to see if he will manage to stay the night," Jack said in a rush, tossing his rucksack on the floor, followed shortly by his coat. "He reckons he won't make it through the night before he gets scared, which is true because he always looks at me all wonky when I mention my specimens."

Mycroft knelt to pick Jack's coat up off the floor and hang it on the coat rack next to Sherlock's. Jack clambered up in his seat at the table, resting his elbows on the surface, looking between John and Sherlock, his eyes still puffy from crying. "It appears you have a plate made if you're hungry, Jack," Mycroft said, picking up the small meal and bringing it over to him.

Jack dug in without preamble. "Rhys' mum made nasty vegetable lasagne, she's a vegetarian," he said around a mouthful of rice. "Mum's are weird."

"Not everyone's mother is a vegetarian," John said, but Jack looked sceptical.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I should be going. Conference call."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in his direction and Jack chirped "Thanks Uncle Crofty. You really gave Rhys quite the scare. He thinks you're a spy, like James Bond."

Mycroft smirked. "I can neither confirm nor deny that claim."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He's much too sedentary to be a spy. He's more like M, surely."

Jack's eyes grew wide, as he looked from Mycroft to Sherlock. "And you're like Q! At least if you wore dad's cardigans. So that means…" his eyes slid to John, then narrowed in suspicion. "Dad's a spy."

John shook his head, waving at Mycroft as he slipped away. "I'm not a spy, Jack. No one's a spy."

"That's exactly what a spy would say," Jack drawled, raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock rested his foot next to John's under the table. John bumped his knee against Sherlock's with a grin. "The boy has a point," Sherlock said, returning the smile. "Perhaps you are a spy, sent here to learn all of my secrets."

"Then I'm doing a bloody poor job of it," John said, sipping his beer. He was enjoying the warm, pleasant burn in his stomach. "I've known you for ages and all I know about you is what you've let me know."

"I've let you know more than anyone else," Sherlock countered. "You're rather perfect for the job, I'd say."

"Would you now?" John asked, and Sherlock leaned back in his chair, resting his steepled fingers against his lips.

Jack looked between them, his eyes wide. "I knew it. You're both spies."

John shook his head, looking away from Sherlock as he licked his lips. "I'm his doctor, and he's my detective," he said, and Sherlock hooked his ankle around John's. Jack did not look convinced, but Sherlock did, and that was all that mattered.


End file.
